


The Heir

by LandlessBud



Series: prohibition era [2]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: 1920s AU, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mob, Black Jack Kelly, Bootlegging AU, F/F, Historical References, Irish Racetrack Higgins, Italian Spot Conlon, Jewish David Jacobs, Jewish Katherine Plumber, Jewish Sarah Jacobs, M/M, Mafia AU, Mentions of Gun Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prohibition AU, slight historical inaccuracy at times, speakeasy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LandlessBud/pseuds/LandlessBud
Summary: “I—I’m David. David Jacobs.” A truth, but not one a novice would admit willingly. “Shit, I’ve already fucked this up. First day in the mob I didn’t know my father was a part of and I’m already bad at it.”It's 1924, and David Jacobs is late.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Past Spot Conlon/David Jacobs, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: prohibition era [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876714
Comments: 54
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarlettroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/gifts).



“Left turn! Left! Damn it, Sarah, you missed the turn again.”

David Jacobs was having a rough day. He’d known for a while that his father planned to have him take over this particular delivery, but Harlem was much farther away than anywhere else he’d tried to get to at night. The darkness certainly didn’t help his (admittedly poor) navigational skills, and his sister Sarah’s remarkable inability to process his last-second directions compounded that.

The couple of weeks he’d spent doing the driving for his father wasn’t helping either. It had been too dark for him to ever recognize where he was going, and his father’s navigation had kept him from actually memorizing the exact route they’d taken. 

David wished he could use a flashlight to see the map better, but the entire goal of this operation was to not get caught. He held it closer to his eyes, squinting.

“Hey, what street are we on now?”

“Think I have a clue?” Sarah shot back. “My eyes’re on the road, not the signs. ’Sides, it’s too dark to read them quickly.”

David groaned and returned to the map, then peeked out over it. “Bear?”

“Yeah?” she replied, staring straight ahead.

“I think we’re lost. Scratch that. I know we’re lost.”

Sarah sighed noisily. “Son of a bitch. I’ll pull over in that alley so you can get your fucking head screwed on straight.”

David opened his mouth.

Sarah cut him off. “Ha, ha. No. Screwed on properly. I’m not letting you make that joke again.”

David groused, crossing his arms childishly as she carefully pulled into the alley.

Once she parked, Sarah made grabbing motions at him. “Gimme.”

He reluctantly handed over the map, taking the opportunity to look at his watch. “Shit!”

“Hm?” She looked up.

“It’s three forty-five.”

The faint color David could see in the dim light drained from her face. “Fuck.”

David rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “We were supposed to be there almost two hours ago.”

“Shut up and let me concentrate,” Sarah said, shushing him dramatically. She intently studied the map, tracing out the route they’d drawn earlier. Her brow furrowed. “ _ Głupek _ ! Go check the sign on the corner behind us.”

David grumbled in protest but obliged, deftly hopping out of the truck and tipping his hat over his eyes. Hopefully, he couldn’t be seen by onlookers. But, even if he was, they wouldn’t be able to identify him. He peeked up at the sign.  _ 170 _ _ th _ _ and Audubon _ . David hadn’t seen or heard of these streets before. He slunk back to the truck, sliding back in and quietly shutting the passenger door.

“So?” Sarah prompted.

“170 th and Audubon.”

“Damn it,  _ bałwan _ , you got us to fucking Washington Heights! We gotta get out of here before the Irish hear!”

David did not panic. His years of training kept him calm and collected. “You figure out how to get where we’re going?”

“Pretty much,” Sarah answered.

“Step on it.”

She revved the engine, pulling out of the alley and speeding south to Harlem. David tipped his hat over his eyes and slid back in his seat, figuring he could catch a brief nap on the drive.

Sarah must’ve glanced over at some point. “Look at you, Mister Big Mob Man,” she mocked. “So mysterious in your long coat and hat. I’m  _ so _ afraid.”

David didn’t look up. “I could kill you without opening my eyes, you know.”

She laughed. “You’d be dead before you got your gun out. I’m not stupid, you dewdropper. You know the only reason I’m not doing these runs myself is because I’m not a man.”

David rolled his eyes. Sarah took his silence as acquiescence.

About five minutes later, he realized he wasn’t going to get any rest. He decided he might as well enjoy the view and looked out the windshield.

Harlem didn’t look that different from the Lower East Side—perhaps a little less crowded and a little cleaner, but otherwise similar. Light glowed in various windows, and music spilled into the streets from the parties in apartments above. Most of the theaters and speakeasies had closed for the night, leaving the sidewalks barren but for the occasional loiterer or clandestine lovers. David averted his eyes, more to respect their privacy than to avoid recognition. No one here should know who he truly was. He didn’t have to worry about protecting his anonymity—in Harlem, it was a given.

Sarah took a couple turns, eventually backing them into a long, nondescript alley. “This should be it,” she said, head out the window. The rearview mirror was useless—the planks hiding the liquor in the back of the truck blocked the view.

David nodded to acknowledge he heard her, then quickly realized that she couldn’t see him. “Excellent.” He took a deep breath and began to get into character.

_ Don’t lie about your name or that you’re in the mob _ , his father had told him.  _ Use your naiveté to your advantage. _

He was now David Jacobs, twenty-five-year-old mob novice. His father had gotten hurt doing another (nonexistent, but this proprietor didn’t need to know that) run, and David was taking over his bootleg runs. He tugged at the chain around his neck, checking to make sure that his father’s key was still there. Everything was in order. David allowed an echo of anxiety in—he needed to make sure that his tardiness was as plausible as possible—then opened the door and crept around the side of the truck. He felt around for the edge of the removable panel. Finding it, he pried it off to reveal stacks of cases of scotches and brandies and all sorts of liquor. Rothstein’s European connections certainly paid off.

David pulled out four crates, stacking them. He replaced the panel, picked them up (not too heavy, thankfully—years of mob training had ensured he had more upper body strength than immediately apparent), and carried them slowly towards the back door.

Using the key to get in would be too easy. He needed the runner switch to be apparent. This proprietor needed to trust him if David was to protect this speakeasy for the foreseeable future.

He briefly wondered what this place was actually called. His father had only given him and Sarah an address and curt instructions on the process. David spotted the flowerpot that apparently had a lockbox hidden in it. This was shaping up to be easier than he’d thought.

He set the stack of crates beside him at the door. Knocking would probably be the best move. David checked his watch. Four AM. Shit.

He knocked gently for several seconds, pausing to listen for a response.

Nothing. David knocked slightly harder, then paused again.

He sincerely hoped the third time would be the charm. David was far from defenseless, but he didn’t have the energy for a proper fight tonight.

David knocked for the third time, harder than before.

Whoever was behind the door opened it a crack, shoving a pistol through. David remembered to appear frightened seconds before he caught the slight shine of a pair of eyes behind the gun.

“Who are you?” the man growled. David had to admire his bravery for not dropping his gun, opting to shake like a leaf. “You lost?”

David jumped slightly, pretending to not have noticed the door opening.

The door opened wider, and David was now greeted with a glare from a slim, Black man. This must be the proprietor. “Harlem’s a little far north for ya, pal. Start talking.”

David now remembered that his father had indeed unintentionally dropped the name of this man in his instructions. “You’re Jack, right?” he peeped. Sarah was probably laughing at him if she could hear him. David made a mockery of actors everywhere.

“Who’s askin’?” the man snapped. David briefly went cross-eyed, clocking the pistol aimed right between his eyes. He could read this man—certainly Jack—like a book. David wasn’t going to get shot tonight. He just needed to stay quiet and listen. “This ain’t a good part of town for a white man like yourself. Scram.”

Ah, yes. David still had to state his purpose. That might be important. He translated his quaking physicality into a tremulous tone. “I—I’m Mayer’s son.” That wasn’t a lie. “Here for Rothstein.” Also true. “I got lost.” An unfortunate truth. “First day.” Not technically a lie, but also not quite true. “I, uh. I’ve got your delivery.” One hundred percent true. Lying by omission was one of David’s more disreputable hobbies.

The look of pity on Jack’s face would have made David break down in laughter had he not had that trained out of him years ago. Jack still didn’t lower his pistol, though. Smart. “Bring it in. I can show you the ropes.”

There was nothing for David to do but obey. He leaned down, picking up his stack of crates without so much as a grunt. David could feel Jack’s eyes burning into him.

Jack opened the door, guiding him into a small antechamber. “Don’t let the door slam behind you,” he cautioned softly before leading David down the stairs into the speakeasy. David revoked his previous evaluation—letting him into the actual club was not the brightest move on Jack’s part. Also, he’d lowered his gun in the process of guiding him in. Didn’t he know David could kill him in three seconds if he wanted to?

He didn’t. David’s theatrical skills must have been better than he thought. They descended down another set of stairs, cleverly hidden behind some curtains on the stage, into a storeroom. David’s arms were starting to burn a little.

“You can set them here,” Jack instructed. David set down the crates, making sure his relief was obvious. “Come with me. I got a few questions for you.”

David mutely complied, following Jack back up to a pair of stools on the stage. He had to restrain his amusement. After all, he was putting on quite the show. Jack sat on one of the stools and gestured to the other. David sank down, releasing some of the artificial tension he’d built up.

The look in Jack’s eyes signaled that he may be in for a slight interrogation. Good thing he was prepared. He’d probably only have to tell one or two lies, and his tried-and-true strategy of word vomit was looking like the best tactic for this particular operation.

“First: where’s Mayer?” Jack prodded.

The father question. David knew it was going to come up early on. “He, uh.” David hoped his hesitation would come off as nerves, not lying. “He got hurt on one of his other runs. Asked me to take over.”

He watched Jack contemplate. The excuse sounded rational even to David, who knew that his father was sleeping at home, happy to finally have nights off. It may also have helped that David was the spitting image of a young Mayer Jacobs. Sarah and Les took more after their mother. Jack must be done thinking—he’d adopted a more neutral expression. “Alright, pal. Got a name besides Mayer’s Son?”

David allowed himself to be caught off guard. His cheeks burned (though he wasn’t sure quite how or why that was happening), and he looked down at the floor in a hopefully convincing imitation of bashfulness. “I—I’m David. David Jacobs.” A truth, but not one a novice would admit willingly. “Shit, I’ve already fucked this up. First day in the mob I didn’t know my father was a part of and I’m already bad at it.”

Jack was very clearly overwhelmed. David mentally patted himself on the back for the effectivity of his acting.

“Whoa, whoa, Davey—slow down.” David was not prepared for the way this new nickname sounded coming out of Jack’s mouth. His voice was rough with exhaustion, though still lovely to Davey. David. David may indeed need to slow down. He shouldn’t start carrying a torch for a man he’d just met like a common harlot. “Mouthin’ off like that’ll get you lead poisoning real quick.” This was, indeed, true. David had offed his fair share of talkers. “Real walkin’ mouth you are.”

Davey didn’t like the way his heart had started thumping in his chest. He’d have to play it off as part of this anxious persona he’d assumed. “It’s—Fuck.” David wanted to bite down on the foot he’d just shoved in his mouth. “Pa told me not to argue.” Also not untrue. This had been a part of his undercover training.

“I’ll call you Mouth.” Davey was officially goofy. This was bad. This was very bad. “How’s that?”

Jack’s nickname-giving skills left much to be desired. Davey still nodded, realizing he could cover his tracks with the new name.

“Okay, pal. Mouth,” Jack continued. “Here’s the deal. Your pop knew how to keep this a quick and clean operation.” If only Jack knew just how true that statement was. “You gotta do the same, or you’ll be worse off than him in a matter of minutes.” No shit. “Got it?”

Did Jack seriously think this hadn’t been beaten into his head already? Davey had to remind himself that he didn’t know he was a career mob man and nodded silently.

“You got his key?” Jack asked. “Didn’t know he had a replacement, so I don’t have a copy.”

Davey nodded again, pulling out the chain he’d hidden under the neck of his shirt.

“Good. That unlocks the door you were pounding on so loudly.” Davey had figured, but it was always nice to have confirmation. “Don’t do that again—you’re lucky you didn’t get caught tonight.” Davey knew Rothstein paid off every cop that patrolled the surrounding blocks of this club to keep from raiding it. He’d never get caught. “Unlock the door, drop the booze inside, and hightail it on out. Once you hit Central Park, you’re golden.” Jack had so obviously never left Harlem for any significant amount of time. Even in the dark, Davey knew his way around better. “Don’t wanna be caught dead out here, white boy. Get me?”

Davey couldn’t counter any of this aloud, so he nodded.

Jack was clearly getting frustrated. “I know you got a mouth, boy. Use it.”

Appearing properly intimidated was never a bad idea when it came to characters like this one. “Got it,” Davey mumbled, then paused. There was never a bad time for a stupid question, either. “I should lock the door on the way out, right?”

Jack evidently wanted to slam his own head into a wall. Davey barely kept himself from laughing. “Got no brain in that head of yours, Mouth? You leave it unlocked, we’re all dead, and Rothstein has your head  _ and _ your father’s.”

Davey cowered, though he knew Rothstein was so very far from ever having his head. He was too valuable. “Um, okay. So. I unlock the door, drop the booze, lock the door, and scram?” Playing dumb was always so much more effective than he thought it would be.

Jack was all business. “Two AM sharp every Sunday.” Like Davey would forget his  _ one _ delivery time. “Cash’s in the lockbox in the flowerpot. I assume you know who to take it to.” The biggest perk of taking this job was that Rothstein would let him keep the profit instead of his father. “I shouldn’t see hide nor hair of you if you’re doing your job right.”

Odd as it was, Davey was disappointed. He did want to get to know Jack better, though he knew he should keep their relationship strictly professional. Realizing he’d momentarily zoned out, he blushed, nodding. He knew Jack was trying to read him and hoped he was fronting well enough that Jack wouldn’t immediately find him out.

“You’ll get used to it, kid,” Jack added. “Trust me.”

Davey  _ hated _ condescension, especially from people who held no real authority over him. “Don’t call me kid,” he snapped. “You ain’t that old yourself.” Fuck. He’d need to play extra dumb to cover this mistake. “Also, how’re you gonna know when I drop the booze off?”

Jack’s eyes hardened. “You’ll be on time. The less we see of each other, the better. Capisce?”

Davey blinked, pretending he hadn’t overheard enough conversations with the Italian mafia to know what Jack meant.

“Capisce, y’know?” Jack was really trying.

Davey blinked again. He didn’t like making Jack feel stupid, but he didn’t see another way out of this mess he’d made.

“Damnit, I’ve been around the Italians too much.” So they had an eye on Jack. Davey wondered if the Irish did, too. “Be on time. I should see no trace of you when I check the back at 2:01.”

Now would be an excellent time for Davey’s singular gripe about this job. “So much for a good post-Shabbos sleep,” he grumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Jack asked innocently. 

Davey wasn’t sure if he’d actually understood him or not, but compliance was never a bad idea, so he held his tongue.

“That’s what I thought.” Davey hoped he’d never have to tell Jack how comical this all felt. “I’ll see your next dropoff next week. Now get outta here before anyone notices you’re gone.”

Davey slid off his stool and raced towards the stairs, then quickly turned back for one last look. He tried to memorize Jack’s face and how at home he appeared here. Jack briefly made eye contact with him. Davey didn’t want to be caught, so he kept going, closing the door behind him and locking it as fast as he could.

He’d taken long enough that Sarah had turned off the truck’s engine. As he slid back into the passenger seat, she started the engine.

“So?” she inquired. “How’d it go?”

Davey sighed. “Not perfectly, but better than I thought. I doubt he knew I was lying.”

Sarah turned, looking him over. “You’re in love.”

Davey grimaced but nodded. 

He wouldn’t allow the sinking feeling he had when he thought about how he’d never see Jack again to consume him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! guess who's back!  
> you all have been clamoring for more david jacobs content, and i'm so happy to FINALLY share this fic with you!  
> happy happy birthday to kath (@scarlettroses here, @thefactsofthematter on tumblr)!  
> some notes:  
> głupek is a Polish word that generally means "bonehead" or "fool"  
> bałwan is a Polish word that generally means "idiot"  
> Washington Heights was an Irish neighborhood in the 1920s! its demographics have changed significantly over the last 100 years  
> hope you all enjoyed! please please please like/RB my pinned post if you like this fic!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey isn't often surprised.

Davey’s next few deliveries went by more smoothly—Sarah had practiced the route a few times before their next drive so that they wouldn’t get as lost. Each time he unlocked the speakeasy’s back door, he secretly hoped that Jack would happen to be nearby. 

Davey was disappointed every week.

He had, however, managed to fall into a routine that sped up the process, so at least he minimized the amount of time he was nearest to that aching pull of the tether this Jack had already managed to sink into his heart. Sarah and Kath had started making bets as to how heartsick he’d come back from runs. Sarah usually won, but Davey wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

Davey prepared himself for another uneventful evening as they trundled towards their destination. Stretching as much as he could inside the truck’s cabin, he attempted to loosen up and wake himself up.

“Don’t block my view!” Sarah hissed, batting with one hand at Davey’s arms.

He let his arms go limp, peeking out the side of the truck. Davey loved the smell of the night air. Something about it was invigorating, which was probably helpful considering his particular career path. Soon, he spotted the turn into the alley. It was too hot for his usual uniform of coat and hat, but by this point Davey knew it was unlikely he’d be spotted at all.

Sarah slowly backed into the alley. Davey considered getting into character (as he did every week) but figured that, since it had been three weeks with no sign of Jack, he wouldn’t need to worry about it. Worse came to worst, he was decent enough at improvising his way out of most sticky situations.

Sarah parked, leaving the engine on. “You got this, Mister Big Scary Mob Man,” she whispered, giving him a gentle tap on the head. 

Davey shrugged her off, opening the passenger door and hopping out. Efficiency was his most pressing goal, so he jogged to the back of the truck. While he pried the false end off of the lumber pile, he listened for the music and voices that came from the apartments above. The chatter usually covered any noise he made, and the music was always a nice background to his deliveries. Tonight, he could hear saxophones and trumpets and the odd piano blazing away, battling the night’s heavy darkness. 

He remained lost in thought while he began stacking crates. As he set the third crate on his pile, he heard a small  _ clunk! _ behind him. 

Without a second thought, Davey whipped out his pistol, aiming it at the source of the sound. Fuck keeping a cover. He needed to keep himself alive. “Don’t make me come find you,” he growled, approaching the sound slowly, gun first. 

Whoever was there wasn’t moving. Davey sincerely hoped it was Jack—that was the only reason he hadn’t just shot at them. However, he needed to get moving. “I’m not going to repeat myself. You got five seconds before you’ve earned yourself lead poisoning.”

Lo and behold, Jack emerged from the shadows, hands in the air. Davey was relieved, though also concerned. Why would Jack be outside the speakeasy at this time of night? He then remembered that, in Jack’s eyes, he was inexperienced and naive. Davey let himself physically relax, mentally keeping himself on alert as he tucked his pistol back into the waistband of his pants. He plastered an easy grin on his face. “Jack! To what do I owe the pleasure?” His volume was measured—loud enough for Jack to hear, but quiet enough that his voice didn’t echo through the alley.

Jack unconsciously shifted his weight from foot to foot. Davey could tell something was up. “We, uh,” Jack began. “We’ve got some negotiations to talk, Mouth. Why don’t you bring those inside?” He gestured to the stack of crates beside Davey. “I can help if you’d like.”

Davey paused, calculating. He was almost certainly walking into some sort of trap. But, he remembered, he couldn’t afford to overthink anything. “I guess I wouldn’t mind some help,” he replied. “Can you take these? I’ve got a few more to get out of the back.”

Jack nodded, then picked up the stack of crates Davey had already set aside. He headed to the back door, propping it open and stepping inside. Davey retrieved four more crates and replaced the false end on the lumber pile.

He picked up the stack, on edge. Something very clearly wasn’t right. Davey reassured himself that his gun was within easy reach and that he could kill nearly any threat (except Sarah). Marching himself towards the door, he could hear the faint noise of a pistol being cocked. Davey quickly made a plan.

Feigning obliviousness, he stepped over the threshold.

Two men—one lanky, tall, and redheaded, the other short and squat with strong Italian features—aimed guns directly at him.

Davey hoped his gasp in mock surprise came off as authentic. To sell the act further, he dropped his entire stack of crates, wincing at the clatter of a bottle shattering in the bottom crate. He pretended these two strange men—probably from the Irish and Italian mob, respectively, if appearances were to be believed—were Rothstein, Pulitzer, and his own father looking at him in disappointment and shook like a leaf.

“I’d put those down if I were you,” Davey threatened. Wait. That was Spot Conlon, one of Costello’s men. Damn it. He was one of the few privy to the knowledge of exactly how dangerous Jack’s operation actually was, and Davey would bet that Costello had weaseled his name out of Rothstein at some point. This was very bad. Davey’s name and face should never have been connected outside of Rothstein’s inner circle. He paled, still shaking, but Spot and his companion obeyed, lowering their guns.

Thankfully, Jack saved the day before Davey had to do any explaining. “So, boys. What’s going on here?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. “You trying to scare my runner off?”

The redhead squeaked incoherently, and Davey was grateful for all the training he had to hide his amusement.

Spot, however, was not so easily intimidated. “Nice to finally meet the infamous Mouth,” he said, looking Davey up and down. 

Davey felt viscerally uncomfortable and channeled that into his character. He turned to Jack, making sure his slight sense of betrayal was blatantly obvious, layering in some of his falsified fear on top. “Was this the only reason you offered to help?”

Jack opened his mouth, gaping like a fish, then closed it again. He must’ve been caught—Davey knew when it came to mob coercion, there weren’t very many effective defenses. “I—that is, uh—y’know, you people”—he gestured to Spot and his companion—“are really hard to say no to.”

“I see,” Davey replied, placid. That didn’t excuse the fact that Spot Conlon, of all people, had managed to confront him, but Davey knew the fear of God a man like that could put into his victims.

An awkward silence settled in—Spot clearly wanted to say something, but, when Jack wasn’t looking, Davey shot him a glare that he hoped was intimidating.

After a few moments, Spot’s compatriot took him by the arm. “We’ll, uh. We’ll be going now. See you later, Jacky-boy,” he said, quickly pulling Spot deeper into the club, probably to a hidden raid exit. Jacky-boy! Davey wanted to laugh. What a nickname. He’d thought Jack had been bad, but these two were so much worse.

Davey returned his attention to Jack, who gestured at his stack of crates. “Why don’t I, uh. Take care of that for you. There’s a wet rag on the bar if you could take a moment to mop that up.”

Now that Davey was fairly certain he was alone with Jack, he didn’t want to leave, so he obliged, setting to work on the spill. He took his time, almost worshiping the task.

Finally, he could faintly hear Jack humming a tune, getting louder as he approached. Davey stood up, turning to the door out to pretend he didn’t hear. Jack stepped into the room. Davey hesitated. Kath was going to win the bet tonight—he hadn’t known Jack could  _ sing _ . “That’s a nice tune,” he said, trying desperately to hide his feelings. “See you around.”

With that, he swiftly climbed the stairs out, shutting and locking the door behind him. Sarah had turned the truck’s engine off while she waited, and she revved it as he slid back into the passenger seat.

She got right to the point. “What took you so long?”

“Irish and Italian guys pressured Jack into cornering me.” Davey figured concision was his friend.

Sarah slammed on the brakes. “Who?”

Davey recovered from his brief whiplash. “Didn’t know the Irish guy, but Spot Conlon was there.”

“He’s with Costello now, ain’t he?” Sarah floored the accelerator.

“As of late, I believe. Seemed like he put two and two together. Don’t like how he knows my real name now.”

“You gotta be more careful,  _ palant _ ,” she warned. “Soon the entire city’ll know who you are.”

Davey didn’t burst often, but Sarah had a tendency to know exactly how to set him off. “You think I don’t know that? The fact that my security rests on whether  _ Spot fucking Conlon _ keeps his goddamn trap shut gives me hives! Fucking hell, Bear. Leave me alone.”

“I’m just—”

Davey stuck his fingers in his ears like a child, pouting, and turned away from her.

She huffed and kept her eyes on the road. The truck’s cabin was silent the whole drive back to the Lower East Side.

Sarah pulled into the alley behind Rothstein’s warehouse, checking their surroundings before turning off the engine. “Come over.” There was no room for negotiation.

“Fine,” Davey whined dramatically. To be fair, her apartment was closer to the warehouse than his, but spending the night at hers meant having to deal with Kath, too. The issue wasn’t that he didn’t like Kath—quite the opposite, in fact—but that she and Sarah together were a force to be reckoned with, and he was rather exhausted.

Still, Davey begrudgingly obliged, playing the part of a responsible adult as they quickly made their way to the back door of her building and silently raced up the stairs. They were becoming well-practiced with this maneuver, as much as he was loath to admit it. Sarah’s apartment was just easier to crash in than Davey’s.

Sarah got to the door of apartment 5B first, slipping through it sideways. Davey followed and shut and locked it behind him.

“Welcome back,” Kath said, taking a drag off her cigarette. She sat on a sofa facing away from the door, and Sarah immediately collapsed on top of her. Davey couldn’t see her face, but Kath’s head tipped downwards towards Sarah. “Rough night?”

“Yeah,” Sarah acquiesced. “But we still have business to attend to. David?”

Davey sighed and flopped on the couch opposite them, swooning mockingly. “I caught a glimpse of his  _ shimmering _ eyes and well-kept mustache and I surrendered my heart to him! I only wonder how long I’ll carry this torch—”

“We get it, Shakespeare.” Sarah tapped Kath’s nose. “You win, for once.”

A slow smile spread across Kath’s face. “Excellent. May I claim my prize?”

Davey groaned. “Get a room.”

“That was the plan until  _ someone _ dragged you here,” she shot back.

Sarah made her trademark puppy-dog-eyes, and Kath softened. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, David.”

Davey rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“You saw him tonight.” Kath’s tone was all business. “That’s unusual. Did something happen?”

Davey clutched a throw pillow to his face, trying not to scream.

“All I got out of David here was that Spot Conlon saw him and put two and two together,” Sarah said.

Kath paled. “Spot Conlon?”

Davey sat up, setting the throw pillow on his lap. “Spot Conlon, my former paramour, the king of Brooklyn, my worst teenage mistake—call him what you will.”

“Seems he’s gotten involved with Costello,” Sarah helpfully added.

“He didn’t know of your… involvement, did he?” Kath asked.

“Spot knew me as David Jakobwicz, a Polish-American perfectly average teenager. I doubt he knew anything was amiss, since I claimed to be busy with homework whenever Aba needed me for another job.”

“So this is a problem.” Kath seemed to have decided to give the understatement of the year.

“What, the fact that I’m now running deliveries to the most dangerous speakeasy in the city and have just been discovered by my schoolyard boyfriend who is now a member of the fucking  _ mafia _ and in cahoots with the Irish mob? Couldn’t be that.” Davey was stretched thin. Exhausted, stressed, and sick of being reminded of his failures by his sister and her girlfriend, he opted for the guest room, where he could hopefully fall into the bed that was unofficially-officially his in the wee hours of Sunday mornings. 

“Wait!” Kath exclaimed, stopping Davey in his tracks. “We do need to plan some sort of intervention.”

Davey made a whining noise like a kicked puppy. “Can’t you do that? I’m tired.”

“Fine, fine,” she replied, waving him off. “But you’ll have to go along with my plan.”

Most of Davey’s job to begin with was following orders, and he reminded Kath of that.

“Fair. But  _ you _ have to tell Rothstein.”

Shit. Davey did  _ not _ want to tell Rothstein.

Sarah saw the fear in his eyes. “Or you could tell Aba, who’ll tell Rothstein for you.”

“Can’t I just go put the fear of God in Spot or something? I feel like that’d be easier and keep you from losing a brother.”

“David,” Kath interjected, suddenly much darker. “You’re much too valuable to  _ my _ father for Rothstein to kill you.”

Davey returned to his sofa, flopping back down with a grunt. He couldn’t walk out of this conversation now. “Damn.”

“You should at least tell Aba.” Sarah reached over and poked at Davey’s side. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Kath…” Davey sighed. “We’re going to have to accelerate things, won’t we?”

“Twenty-six is on the older side of maidenhood,” Kath replied, picking at her nails. “Besides, we did know we’d have to do it eventually. It might make our living situation easier, too.” She tapped at Sarah’s nose.

Davey rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Guess I’ll go ring shopping, then. Got any requests?”

“Not particularly. It better be expensive, though.”

“Why did I expect anything more?” Davey rolled his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, honey,” she said, overtly batting her eyelashes. “Til death do we part, and all that bullshit.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” he responded in the same facetious tone. “I’m ready for your ball and chain.”

Sarah huffed indignantly.

“At least you have an option out,” Davey shot back. “I’m stuck with this one for life.”

“Or until Rothstein and my father are dead,” Kath added.

Sarah abruptly sat up. “Let’s not think about that.”

“Am I… free to go now? I’m so tired,” Davey whined.

“Sure,” Kath said, shooing him towards the guest bedroom.

Davey enthusiastically obliged, planning to dive bomb the soft queen bed. He couldn’t indulge in his youth often, so he compensated by being especially childish around Kath and Sarah.

He landed ungracefully, limbs flying everywhere. The duvet was  _ heavenly _ . Davey needed to ask them where they got it—his own bed was not nearly as comfortable. As he (reluctantly) got up to close the door, he could somewhat make out the sound of conversation. He closed the door silently, then leaned against it to eavesdrop.

Sure, Kath and Sarah probably wouldn’t appreciate his listening in, but they had to know by now that Davey would do anything to obtain extra information.

“…I think I should go check in, at least,” Kath was saying.

“I don’t know,” Sarah replied. “It’s far, and you’d be alone…”

“Don’t you trust me? I may not have been raised with quite the degree of training you had, but I’m no dumb Dora. Besides, you know I’ve done lots of intelligence work.” This was obviously a battle Kath intended on winning. Perhaps she could figure out if Jack would be at all romantically inclined towards him. Not that that would be central to her self-imposed mission, but it  _ would _ be nice to know so Davey could figure out whether to attempt to put out that torch he’d lit.

_ Oh. _ Perhaps she could figure out a way to distract Jack for a night so Davey could take care of Spot and his companion. She and Sarah did have those parties… but how could they justify inviting a strange Black man?

Maybe Jack could sing for them. Davey felt dirty for even having to think of excuses to get Jack in the room. But he had, to be fair, learned that Jack had quite the musical skill.

Davey’d gotten so wrapped up in his far-fetched ideas that he’d zoned out momentarily. He pressed his ear back to the door, hoping he hadn’t missed out on too much.

“...No, Bear, I won’t tell him.”

Sarah murmured something in response, but he couldn’t catch it. Perhaps that was for the best. Was Kath implying that there was something she wouldn’t tell Davey? Or was this “him” someone else? Now that Davey thought about it, she most likely was referring to her father. But he wasn’t the only person she could keep in the dark.

Davey’s sleep-deprived brain could not continue to process all these questions. Whatever Kath was planning, he’d eventually be looped in on it. Or so he hoped. She was often better at keeping secrets than he gave her credit for. They were playful and childish around each other to cope with the fact that they’d soon be forced into marriage, so Davey often forgot how intimidating she could be.

Satisfied, he quickly prepared for bed, sinking into the satin sheets. As he drifted off, the echoes of a gentle tune and the glimmer of a dark pair of eyes crossed his mind, soothing him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello!  
> thank you all so much for your patience! this past week i seem to have decided to have an actual life. i hope you all enjoy this chapter!  
> a note:  
> Palant is Polish for "idiot".  
> thank you all again so much for reading! please please please leave a comment and RB my pinned post on tumblr if you're liking this fic! (i'm @landlessbud there!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey pays a few overdue visits.

Davey usually loved visiting for Shabbos with Sarah, but approaching the front door of his childhood home alone on a Monday afternoon was daunting. He knew his parents loved to see him, and Les never hesitated to pepper him with questions about his latest exploits. The weight of Spot’s knowledge sat heavy on his shoulders; the resistance pulled his fist away from the door before his knuckles had touched it once.

He knew he looked like an idiot. The curious stares and annoyed glares from several passersby in the hallway in front of his parents’ apartment had shown him as much. How hard was it to knock on a door?

Just as he’d worked up the courage to knock, the door swung open. Davey tumbled into the apartment, tugged by the shirtsleeve. By the time he’d regained his bearings, he had collapsed into an armchair, Les staring down at him.

“Nice to see you again, palooka,” Davey prodded. He never gave up an opportunity to give his younger brother a hard time.

Les, predictably enough, scoffed indignantly. “Was wondering when we’d see you around here.”

Davey casually crossed one leg over the other. “What can I say? I’m a busy man.” He could tell that Les was having a hard time restraining himself from questions and smirked. “Lots of secret business I’ve got to take care of.” Perhaps that “secret business” was figuring out how to romance a bartender from Harlem, but Les didn’t need to know that.

Heavier, socked footsteps thudded from the back of the apartment. Davey went on guard, though his casual posture wouldn’t show it.

“Aba’s missed you,” Les said, settling into another armchair and inspecting his nails. At seventeen, he’d started to pick up some of their father’s mannerisms in an attempt to appear more grown-up. Davey didn’t have the heart to tell him that this wasn’t exactly the behavior of on-the-job mob men.

“ _Dawidek_!” 

Davey looked up into his father’s eyes.

A warm smile stretched across Mayer’s lined face, though Davey could spy a hint of worry behind it. “What brings you here?”

Davey glanced at Les, then back to Mayer. “Figured it’d been too long since I last visited for anything besides Shabbos.” He still wasn’t sure how much information Les had on his current occupation as an undercover bootlegger.

“ _Lesław_ , why don’t you go get your brother and myself something to drink?” Mayer directed.

Les protested. “But—”

“Now, _Lesław_.” He gave Les the look that Davey remembered so well from his early days of training: obey, or else.

Les scurried off to the kitchen, loudly opening and closing cabinets. Davey took his head in his hands.

“ _Dawid_ ? _Dawidek_ , look at me,” Mayer instructed.

Davey peeked through his fingers.

“What’s wrong, son?”

“Who said anything’s wrong?” Davey asked, trying to play off his nerves. “Can’t a fella surprise his pa every once in a while?”

“When was the last time you visited outside of Shabbos?”

Davey had to think for a minute, counting on his fingers. “Uh. Passover?”

“Passover!” Mayer exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Uh. Passover?’ he says! My eldest son hasn’t visited home since Passover! That was April! It’s August, _Dawid_!”

Davey deflated a little, cowed. In the meantime, the kitchen had become suspiciously silent. Glancing in the direction Les had gone, he quietly changed the subject. “Has Les joined the family business?”

Les, miraculously enough, had chosen this opportunity to return, two mugs in his hands. “Have I what? Also, here’s your _oranżada_ ,” he said, handing the mugs to Davey and their father.

Mayer tipped his head in thanks, then returned his focus to his elder son. “Not in your particular capacity, but he’s yet to take on any real work.”

“But he knows?” Davey pressed, earning a quizzical look from Les.

“Some,” Mayer acquiesced. “Enough to get by, should need be.”

A plan began to fall into place in Davey’s mind. “And if I were, hypothetically, in a bit of a bind… would he be in a position to, say, lend his big brother a hand or two?”

Les’s eyes went wide. “What—”

“ _Lesław_ , my boy! I can’t believe I’ve forgotten—we were supposed to borrow some sugar from the Gliksmans. Can you go get it?” Davey knew this was one of Mayer’s classic diversion tactics—the Gliksmans’ son Henry was one of Davey’s few childhood friends and frequently helped him on the job.

Les hung his head, disappointed. “Yes, Aba.” He raced out of the apartment, slamming the front door shut behind him.

“What’s going on, son?” Mayer gave Davey a gentle, fatherly smile. “You need my help with something?”

Davey scratched the back of his neck. “I… uh… yes. It’s, um. It’s about the job.”

Mayer, confused, thought for a moment. Recognition dawned on his face. “Ah, yes. The _job_. How’s Harlem treating you?”

“Quite well, actually,” Davey replied. “But…”

“But what?” Mayer prompted.

“But… the Irish and Italian watchmen pressured Jack into cornering me. Don’t think the Irish guy had any idea who I was, but…” Davey didn’t want to keep going.

Mayer’s eyes bored into him. 

Davey sighed. “You remember Spot Conlon?” He couldn’t bear to look at his father.

Mayer hummed for a moment, thinking. “Little Italian kid? You knew him from… I don’t remember. He came around here once or twice, right?”

“He ain’t a kid anymore, but otherwise yes. Got himself aligned with Costello, of all people. He was there. Pretty sure he put some pieces together that he shouldn’t have.”

“That’s quite the situation, son.” Davey couldn’t place Mayer’s placid tone. After a long silence, he continued. “What are you going to do about it?”

Davey froze. “What am I going to do about it?”

Mayer nodded sagely. “What are you going to do about it? _I_ am retired. This is your job now. What are you going to do?”

Davey paused, allowing his thoughts to coalesce into a plan. “I’ll… take care of him. Bring some boys up with me to the club, catch him there. I’ll stay out of sight while they... stress the _importance_ of keeping secrets. Could I bring Les along?”

An approving smile spread on Mayer’s face. “I can barely control him as it is. He’s yours for the taking.”

Les was never going to be able to thank Davey enough for this.

Right on cue, the front door slammed open and Les skidded in, a small jar of sugar clenched in a fist. “Wha’s hap’nin’?” he asked around the cookie still stuck in his mouth.

Davey grinned. “I’ve got a job for you.”

* * *

Davey lounged in his armchair, paging through his well-worn copy of _Howards End_. Yawning, he stretched, setting the book gently in his lap, then checked his watch. Midnight—too early for sleep. He returned to the novel as Henry proposed to Margaret, devouring the same scene he’d read a thousand times as if he’d never seen it before. Davey didn’t often have time to himself, so he enjoyed taking the few moments of solitude he had to remind himself of art, beauty, love, and pain. He didn’t know quite why he felt such a strong tie to this particular book: perhaps it was the importance E.M. Forster placed on finding and establishing a home and family, or perhaps it was his particular narrative voice.

The phone rang, interrupting Davey’s ruminations. He sighed, carefully marking his place with the special ribbon he used only for this book, and pushed himself up, meandering over to his candlestick telephone. Taking the transmitter in his right hand and the ear phone in his left, he sat at his desk. “Hello?”

 _“David?”_ Of course it was Sarah. No one else called him at this hour unless he was on a job. And, even if someone were calling him about the deliveries, it’d be Sarah anyway.

“Bear, what’s going on? It’s rather late.” Davey yawned loudly into the mouthpiece.

_“I’m bored.”_

“That’s what you have Kath for, isn’t it?”

 _“Kath’s… not here at the moment,”_ Sarah replied after a brief hesitation.

“When will she be back?” Davey didn’t want to leave the comfort of his apartment, especially at this time of night.

_“I don’t know. Probably late. Please come over? You can stay the night if you’d like.”_

“What’s in it for me?” He knew she had to have something up her sleeve.

_“I’ve got a tasty bowl of raspberries here and you’ll be sorry to miss out on them.”_

Damn. Raspberries sure would be worth the short hike to her apartment. Davey’s icebox didn’t work particularly well, and Kath and Sarah had recently obtained a real refrigerator. “Fine,” he relented. “But no funny business, you hear?”

Sarah giggled. _“See you soon.”_

The line went dead, and Davey gratefully hung the ear phone back up on its stand. Standing up, he rolled his shoulders, searching for anything he might need to bring with him. Keys—stashed in a pocket. Book—he could live without it for the night, so he tenderly slid it back into its place of honor on his small bookshelf. Though it was fairly warm, he still slid his shirt and vest back on, quickly buttoning up the fronts, then threw his lightest coat over. Oh—and he couldn’t forget his hat. Blindly, he snagged one off his coat rack, hoping it would at least somewhat match the rest of his outfit. He laced up his shoes, opting to forego his spats for the sake of efficiency, and wearily trudged out the front door of his apartment, locking it behind him. 

Thankfully, it was only a few blocks to Kath and Sarah’s place. Davey darted through the familiar back alleys and hidden pathways, avoiding as many main streets as possible. By this point, he’d memorized every possible path between their apartments, careful not to repeat the same one too frequently.

Having reached their apartment building, he pressed the buzzer. The front door almost instantly clicked open, and he raced up the stairs. Davey took pride in his athletic capabilities: despite having practically sprinted up five flights of stairs, he hadn’t broken a sweat and was only barely breathing harder.

He tapped lightly at the door to Kath and Sarah’s apartment, then let himself in, shut the door behind himself, and hung his hat on the coat rack. Oh. _That_ was the hat he’d chosen. At least it was dark out—Davey prepared himself for the shame of wearing a mismatched hat with his coat the next morning.

Sarah lounged on the couch facing the door, eating raspberries off her fingertips. “Was wondering when you’d get here,” she said through a mouthful of fruit. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Davey replied, settling on the couch opposite her. “Bit tired.” He paused. “Hand over the berries, will you?”

Sarah replaced the raspberries she’d eaten on her fingertips, then passed him the bowl. “How’s Aba?”

He groaned. “Upset that I don’t visit more.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Pretty much told me to solve the problem myself. Les is coming with.”

Sarah’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t.”

Davey popped a raspberry in his mouth. “I sure did.”

“Kid’ll owe you for life.”

“That’s the plan.”

Sarah took a deep breath. “Isn’t that a little cruel?”

“You should really know by now that that’s just how life in the mob works. And hey—it’ll keep me in his good books for a good while. One more person I know I can trust. That list is getting shorter by the day, somehow.”

She opened her mouth to protest right as the front door swung open.

“Honey, I’m home!” Kath whisper-shouted. After closing the door, she swung her arms wide. “Come give mama a little sugar.”

Sarah grimaced a little, nodding her head towards Davey.

“Oh!” Kath exclaimed. She took a moment to collect herself and hung her coat and hat on the rack by the door. “No rule that you can’t give me a kiss while he’s around, anyway.”

Sarah ate another raspberry off her index finger. “Don’t wanna get up,” she grumbled.

“That’s no problem at all,” Kath said, settling beside Sarah, who only lifted her head long enough to rest it in her lap. Pressing a delicate kiss to her forehead, Kath began to absentmindedly stroke Sarah’s hair.

Sarah purred softly.

“Gross,” Davey grimaced.

Kath took a deep breath.

Davey tensed.

“I paid him a visit.” Kath’s gaze bored into his head.

“Who?” Normally, Davey could somewhat pick up on Kath’s vague statements, but he was too exhausted to think tonight.

“Your man.” 

Sarah cackled gleefully.

Davey’s hackles rose. “You didn’t.”

“I sure did.” She giggled, ruining any sultry effect she’d been going for with that red lipstick she was so fond of.

“Kath, I can take care of my own business,” he protested.

“Are you sure about that? You seem to be stuck in a bit of a bind at the moment.”

Davey didn’t like when Kath was right. “What did you do?”

“Turns out your fella has quite the set of pipes.”

Davey blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t tell me this Jack of yours was a _singer_. And quite a good one at that.”

Davey couldn’t follow. “He’s just the bartender—though I did hear him hum something nice once.”

“Oh, and he did pour me quite the drink. Lit it on fire and everything.”

He couldn’t tell if Kath was being serious.

Sarah tapped Kath’s nose. “Is Jack trying to steal you away from me?”

“No, darling,” Kath replied, “I’m yours for good.”

Davey made a gagging noise.

“Oh, get off your high horse,” Sarah admonished. “We have to listen to you pining all day—let us be sickening in peace.”

“Fine, fine.” He paused. “How’d you end up hearing Jack sing?”

“He said something about doing a favor for the owner—couldn’t get more out of him than that,” said Kath.

“Interesting.” Davey mentally kicked himself for missing out on Jack’s performance.

“Oh, and I invited him over next Sunday,” she added.

“You… invited him to your salon?” Davey parroted back.

“I did indeed. I thought my little canary here”—Kath tapped Sarah’s nose—“could use a new duet partner.”  
There was something dangerous hidden underneath her light tone. Davey picked up on what she was implying.

“And I could use some time to take care of the Irishman and the Italian.”

“Indeed.” Kath’s glittering, sharp-toothed smile returned. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Davey mentally took roll again. Les had, remarkably enough, managed to not get lost on the longest subway trip he’d ever taken. Henry Gliksman was there, standing resolutely beside Bill and Darcy, Kath’s old friends. Perfect. 

He glanced across the 57th Street subway stop again, making sure they weren’t being watched.

Was that Jack in a swanky blue jacket heading south?

Not wanting to waste any more time, Davey waved his men (and boy) along subtly, and they quickly ascended the stairs to the El, which they’d take the rest of the way to Jack’s speakeasy. Hopefully, Spot and his companion would be there tonight.

Davey’s mind wandered as the El trundled up towards Harlem, wondering what Jack was doing at Kath and Sarah’s—if their usual guests had welcomed him, and what he was performing.

Les kicked at Davey’s ankle. “I think we’re almost there.”

Davey tuned in to the garbled announcement from the conductor to confirm. “So we are.” He nodded to the other men with them. “Ready?”

Darcy and Bill nodded, and Henry gave him a subtle thumbs up. This wasn’t their first rodeo.

Davey slunk off the train, not checking to see if his entourage followed. The plan was simple: he’d keep watch, since Spot and his companion knew who he was. Darcy, Bill, Henry, and Les, in the meantime, would work together to _encourage_ Spot to forget about Davey. If that message happened to be shared with his mysterious companion, so much the better.

Davey kept his head down as he casually meandered towards _Miss Medda’s_ and the fire escape on the back of the building. The neighboring apartments, again full of light and life, allowed him to slip through the back alley unnoticed. He scrambled up the fire escape as quietly as possible, then found a good spot to perch on top of the building, watching both the alley behind and the street in front of it for any signs of trouble.

Les and Henry slipped into the building next door, planning on using one of the escape routes in. Davey watched as Darcy and Bill entered through the front door. Hopefully, Spot would already be inside. 

Davey tensed, on guard. Everything seemed to be going to plan. Or, as much of the plan as he knew. It was always safer for everyone to have plausible deniability—he’d simply asked his men to make sure Spot (and, perhaps, his companion) wouldn’t go looking where he shouldn’t. 

Five minutes passed agonizingly slowly. Davey, ensconced in shadows, crouched perfectly still, all impulse to fidget trained out of himself long ago. He longed for distraction but kept his focus: this was supposed to be a quick, one-and-done job, after all.

Several minutes ticked away on Davey’s pocket watch. His fingers itched to do _something_ —he wasn’t used to feeling quite so useless. Typically, he’d be closer to the action, but he’d blundered his way into this mess (well, Jack had, but that was beside the point. This was Davey’s problem now.) and couldn’t rescue himself for once.

Why did Costello have to pick Spot Conlon in particular to keep an eye on this joint? He had to have other cronies. A little speakeasy in Harlem didn’t seem to be Spot’s typical scene, but, then again, who was Davey to judge? _Miss Medda’s_ was by far the riskiest establishment around. Of course the Italians needed good eyes on it.

A few more minutes passed. Davey watched a basement door on the building next door swing open as two figures scampered out. One was too short and squat to be anyone he’d brought with him—this must be Spot and his companion, thoroughly convinced, escaping the scene. Perfect. Davey peeked over the opposite side of _Miss Medda’s_ —there, indeed, were Les and Henry, stationed outside. Bill and Darcy would stick around the club for a while longer to avert suspicion. Davey would stay longest of all to make sure everyone made a clean escape (and to make sure Jack got back safely, though he didn’t mention that when they were planning the job).

An hour passed. Davey had watched Darcy and Bill jovially exit the club with several friends they’d made, and, one by one, the lights had begun to turn off in neighboring buildings. A muffled saxophone crooned, melancholic, as a silhouette, illuminated by moonlight, staggered into the alley. The hairs on Davey’s neck stood on end.

As Jack (still in his recognizable outfit from earlier) approached, Davey realized that he wasn’t hurt—just very, very tired. A night at one of Kath and Sarah’s parties could certainly do that to a man. Davey watched to make sure he got in the back door, then decided to call it a night. Jack was safe, his men were ostensibly safe, and Davey was now safe from Spot.

* * *

Davey leafed through _Howards End_ for the fifth time that Thursday, but nothing stuck out enough for him to reread. He groaned, disentangling himself from his armchair. It was time to peruse his (rather meager) bookshelf for another option. Conveniently, as he slid _Howards End_ back into its place of honor, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

 _“Greetings from Sarah Jacobs’s Fun Factory,”_ Sarah’s voice crackled over the phone.

Davey rolled his eyes.

_“I can hear you rolling your eyes. Tell me you had fun plans for tonight and I’ll leave you alone.”_

“I…”

_“Please tell me you’ve at least picked up a different book.”_

Davey chose not to respond.

Sarah sighed loudly. _“Come and see Jack sing tonight, David. He’s quite lovely.”_

“So Kath’s article said,” he replied. “What’s in it for me?”

 _“A night not spent bored off your ass? Come on. It’ll be fun_ and _you can claim it’s work related.”_

Mentally, Davey had already relented, but he didn’t want to give Sarah the satisfaction of knowing that. “Perhaps I like being bored off my ass.”

_“No, you don’t, głupek. I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Be ready.”_

Davey heard the line go dead as she hung up. He set the ear phone back on the transmitter and then took a deep breath. What would he wear? Davey didn’t want to dress too obviously like he was in the mob, but he also didn’t want to stand out too much.

He wandered over to his wardrobe and sifted through the various jackets, coats, and shirts that he’d managed to collect throughout his years of high-level defense and infiltration. Ah. There it was. His sleek black tuxedo, a bit dusty from disuse. Davey grabbed the matching shirt and pants and dug through drawers to find his cummerbund and bowtie. Perfect. He threw them on and rushed out of his bedroom back to his small parlor.

A light knock tapped at his door.

“Come in!” Davey called, tying a shoe.

The door creaked as Sarah waltzed in, all glitz and glamor under her long coat. “Ready to go?” she asked.

“Calm down, Bear. You gave me fifteen minutes to get ready—let me get my coat and hat, then I’ll be good to go.”

Sarah mock-tipped her hat at him. “Of course.”

Finally fully dressed in coat and hat, Davey nodded towards the door. Sarah clapped in joy, tugging him out. He locked the door behind them before continuing to the El, arm in arm with his sister.

Entering _Miss Medda’s_ from the front was a rather strange experience for Davey. He hadn’t seen the club in operation before, and the combination of smoke, glitter, and constant movement was disorienting. 

Sarah grinned beside him. “Isn’t it the tiger’s spots?”

Davey allowed himself a moment of slack-jawed awe. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

The crowd’s chatter was nearly overwhelming.

“Why don’t you get us some drinks?” Sarah shouted over the hubbub. “I’ll find us some seats.”

As Davey approached the bar, he noticed that everyone patronizing the place was white. Oh, right. This was another of Rothstein’s stipulations for leniency. Waving over a bespectacled bartender, he ordered a sidecar for himself and a Mary Pickford for Sarah. Davey scanned over the club while he waited for the bartender to mix the drinks. He recognized some faces from Sarah and Kath’s parties—it seemed that Kath’s article had made Jack rather popular all of a sudden. Eyeing the tables near the tiny stage where the band was tuning up, Davey searched for Sarah. Why on earth had she chosen a table in the front row? Davey supposed she did quite enjoy schadenfreude, particularly when it was his pain involved. He wasn’t sure how he’d react to being so close to Jack so publicly, but he supposed he’d find out soon enough.

“Here you are, sir,” the bartender interrupted Davey’s thoughts, pushing two mugs over the bar.

“Thanks,” Davey answered, passing him more than enough cash to cover the drinks. “Keep the change.”

The bartender smiled slyly, sliding one of the extra bills into a vest pocket.

Davey approached Sarah’s table cautiously, taking care to ensure he didn’t spill the drinks. Setting them down gently, he peeled off his trench coat and suit jacket, which had become stifling in the hot air of the club.

Sarah sipped at her drink. “He’ll be on soon,” she said, answering his unasked question.

Davey stared into his mug to avoid responding.

“You really missed out at our party last weekend,” she continued. “Shame you had to miss it.”

“You know I had business,” he replied curtly.

Suddenly, the band began a bright, familiar vamp. Davey started. Sarah chuckled quietly beside him; he elbowed her in frustration.

Jack stepped out, resplendent in a blue jacket. Davey couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stage. He wondered how long it’d take Jack to notice him.

“Hello, hello!” Jack greeted over the music. Davey was going to pass out. Normally, he could keep his cool in nearly any situation, but Jack was a particular weakness he had a hunch he’d never overcome. “Welcome to _Miss Medda’s_. I, obviously, am not Miss Medda—she’ll be on once you’ve had your fill of me. I’m Jack the Singing Bartender, and I’ll be your opener tonight!”

The crowd went wild. Davey was totally out of his element.

“ _You’re the cream in my coffee; you’re the salt in my stew…_ ” Jack began.

Just then, Jack caught Davey’s eye. Several emotions passed quickly over Jack’s face as he recognized Davey.

Davey noted how Jack glanced quickly back and forth between himself and Sarah. How had Jack not connected the dots before?

He applauded Jack for his ability to continue performing while clearly having an emotional revelation, almost getting lost in his analysis of the situation enough to miss the next line of the song Jack had been humming the day they first met.

“ _You will always be my necessity: I’d be lost without you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy!  
> thank you all SO MUCH for your patience!! i hope this extra-long (4200+ words! yikes!) chapter makes up for not updating in forever. some notes!  
> Dawidek is a Polish diminutive of Dawid, the Polish version of David  
> Lesław is Les's full Polish name  
> oranżada is a Polish soft drink, commonly called orangeade in English  
> głupek, which also appeared in a previous chapter, is Polish for "bonehead" or "fool"  
> and Jack sings [You're the Cream in My Coffee](https://youtu.be/IqaNW6TwT0U) by Jack Hylton at the end!  
> oh also EM Forster was like. really gay. that's why he's in here lmao  
> i hope you all enjoyed! please please PLEASE leave a comment and RB my pinned post on tumblr if you're liking this fic! (i'm @landlessbud there too!)


End file.
